


We Come Alive

by musiclily88



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3892996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis and Harry work at a sumer camp but just can't seem to get along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Come Alive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renwillow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renwillow/gifts).



> Hi, pretty! I hope this fit your prompt okay :D It’s Harry POV because that little people-pleaser is just so hard to deny.
> 
> The prompt in question:  
> "summer camp au where harry and louis are forced into the same cabin and louis hates the cheery idiot he's stuck with and all harry wants to do is make [him] laugh. Angst but obvious it all turns around when louis catches harry getting out of the shower."
> 
> A bit of angst and fluff and self-consciousness and silly boys. AND SMUT! And feelings. And tattoos.  
> I’m a pinch-hitter so this is something I’ve only been sitting with for a short time but HOLY goodness I love this idea~

At home, Harry knows himself pretty well. He’s a brother, he’s a son, he’s a good student. He’s a decent friend and an all right golfer. Sometimes he’s a writer. He’s quite a few things, and especially with his hair grown out, he’s a bit of a magnet for romantic attention (which has been jarring, to say the least).

Camp is—something else. Camp is a bit brutal, really, even with Harry feeling generally okay with being _unpopular._ Unpopular is fine, no good writer spent his adolescence being _liked._ Obviously. And Harry identifies with that, given everything. Given his dreams and his intrinsic ways of being. Given that he wants to be a best-selling author.

And, okay, he’s not _exactly_ unpopular.

It’s just that at Camp Wannatoke, Harry feels like nothing much, and it weighs on him. And his co-counsellor does nothing to help, the stupid-pretty Louis who laughs right in his face more than half the time. Louis makes Harry blush and stammer.

But he also gets Harry get hard.

Which is probably the most embarrassing part, that being teased makes his body react and _betray him._

Luckily, he doesn’t think Louis’ noticed this yet, or he would’ve mentioned it already. He supposes there’s something to be said for a uniform made mostly of oversized camp t-shirts and loose basketball shorts.

Louis’ kind of a shit counsellor, is the thing, plays pranks more often than the campers do. Keeping up with him is exhausting, but Harry’s deeply gratified whenever he can make Louis laugh. It’s happened just a handful of times, and one of those times only occurred because Niall shoved him in a rubbish bin and rolled him down a hill, but Harry will take it.

Harry likes working at camp, especially likes the campers—he’s always liked kids, plus they seem to take him at least a little bit seriously. At any rate, they don’t put itching powder in his bunk; that dubious honour is reserved for Louis.

But he can’t help feeling a little humiliated every time Louis frowns at him, every time Louis passes him by only to jump on someone else’s back and demand he get carried around for awhile. Harry wants Louis to ride _him,_ in more ways than one—which is a thought that also makes him flush.

He tries to sublimate his sexual frustration by working, working out, and being really committed to smooth sailing for his campers.

Sometimes this involves sitting with eight-year-old Caleb who’s never been away from home for this long, teary-eyed and mopey. Caleb and Harry position themselves in the office and write his mum an e-mail, Harry suggesting Caleb mention that he and Shannon won the relay race and that their cabin is definitely going to be amazing in the talent competition at the end of the term.

Other times it means pitching in when their cook, Barbara, has to take time off to go to a funeral. Making doughnuts for 150 children and however many staff they currently employ is not an easy feat, but he gets a lot of satisfaction out of a job well done. Niall eats four of them and calls Harry a genius, and even Louis gives him a small, secret smile.

And it’s not that Harry doesn’t have fun, because he does. He likes crafting, loves hiking, and he’s really good at coming up with creative alternatives to camp songs (they only sometimes involve phallic references). He likes sitting around bonfires and eating way too much unhealthy food, loves listening to Niall strum casually at his guitar when they all hang out in the evening. He doesn’t totally like the embarrassed look that Liam adopts every time Louis tries to twist his nipple, but he’s pretty sure that’s because he’s jealous.

 

He likes that he mostly gets his weekends free, so he can explore their tiny coastal town on a shitty one-speed bike that’s almost too rusty to use. It’s idyllic to the point of absurdity.

One Saturday, when he’s perusing a _vintage store_ that’s actually more of a repository for busted tabletop games from the 80s, when he’s considering whether or not he actually _needs_ to start an eclectic scarf and bandana collection, is the time he realizes he’s in way too far, where Louis in concerned. He sees him through the shop’s front window, holding a young child and also an ice cream cone, laughing so loudly his eyes fall shut.

All Harry wants to do is kiss the column of this throat, his skin looking golden and suntanned and beautiful. It makes Harry want to write sonnets, and that feels so damn undignified. Harry writes fiction, he writes tragic but beautiful stories about lost love and admiration from afar, and he realizes, in that moment, that he’s become a caricature of himself. So he sighs, puts down the anchor-patterned scarf he was contemplating purchasing, and he leaves the store.

Louis spots him immediately, shifting the child—a little girl—onto his hip while his face closes down a bit. Harry thinks it’s unfair, because all he wants is to make Louis grin, but he doesn’t dwell on it much. Instead he just says, “Hi, Lou,” and waves one hand.

Louis nods. “Harry Styles. Having a good weekend?” The girl on his hip throws her arms around Louis’ neck, peering at Harry shyly.

“Yeah, thanks for asking. Beautiful day and all.” He runs one hand through his hair, which is getting a little shaggy at this stage of the summer. He feels nervous and stupid, with Louis looking all domesticated and paternal. It makes Harry’s heart hurt. “Who’s this?”

“Dorie. Doris, rather. My youngest.”

“Daughter?” Harry squawks, nearly managing to trip over thin air.

Louis smirks. “Sibling. I’m the oldest of seven, remember?”

“Oh! Oh yeah. Right. Hi, Doris. How’s your ice cream?”

“Good. Bubblegum.” 

“It’s very kind of you to share with your big brother.”

She nods solemnly. “I know. He asks nice. Said please.”

“Manners are pretty important,” Harry agrees. “I always say please and thank you.”

Louis smirk turns glass-sharp and he raises a brow. “Oh do you, Styles?”

“Just the way my mum raised me,” he says, tone going for casual but face turning pink.

“Sure. I follow.” Louis shrugs a bit, holding the cone so Doris can lick the ice cream threatening to spill onto his hand. “What are you up to, then? Stocking up on hipster paperbacks and Chelsea boots to add to your mystique?”

Harry frowns. “I haven’t got a mystique.”

“Sure. You’re an open book, whatever.” Louis snorts, a bit too loudly.

Harry’s brows furrow. “Okay.”

“Anyway, we’ve gotta run. Nearly naptime for the young’un.”

“Nuh-uh!” Doris protests, pounding one sticky fist against Louis’ shoulder. “No it isn’t!”

“Sorry, love. It is.”

“It was very nice to meet you, Dorie. Can I call you Dorie?”

“Yeah. It’s my name.” _Like, duh._

“True,” Harry replies, laughing a little. That, if nothing else, convinces Harry that she’s Louis’ sister. “Lovely running into you guys. Have a good nap, Dorie.”

“You too.” She sighs, snuggling into Louis’s neck.

Harry watches them walk away, knowing deep in his gut that he is so, so fucked.

 

He lets that realization settle into his bones over the next few weeks, trying to keep his head down at least metaphorically. Niall gives him shit for his blatant crush, but he’s the only one who does, so Harry feels grateful.

Every now and again he notices Louis giving him appraising looks, but his general manner towards him hasn’t really changed. He’s still stilted and weird, weirder than he is with the other counsellors, even if his typical interactions with the others are to twist their nipples through their t-shirts.

He’s no nicer in front of the campers, still teases Harry relentlessly for stupid things like his slow, meandering stories and his penchant for muttering _indie song lyrics_ all the time.

One weekend afternoon in between a term, while they’re setting up their cabins for new campers to arrive, Louis flings a flipflop at Harry’s head. He stops humming and frowns at Louis. “What?”

“Wanna know how I know you’re gay?”

“Excuse me?”

“You listen to Coldplay.”

 _“You_ listen to Coldplay,” he points out slowly, flinging the flipflop back in Louis’ general direction.

Louis merely sighs before dramatically sweeping out of the cabin. “Christ, Styles, watch a film now and again.”

Niall’s the one to tell him that the line is from the 40-Year-Old Virgin, and he has no idea what to make of that. He’s not a blushing virgin, he just can’t keep himself from _blushing_ all the time. He’s well past finding it entertaining. He just wants Louis to like him, goddamn it.

It troubles him for another week, sits at the back of his mind and won’t give him peace.

The summer’s only so long, though, so Harry tries to put his time to good use. He sinks himself into sport even harder, challenging Niall to round after round of golf. Harry’s lucky that the village that hosts Camp Wannatoke has some space for things like a driving range and a few tennis courts—but then, it’s a touristy resort village, really, not just a place for young kids to learn about plants.

So Harry golfs during his free hours, heads to the driving range like a man driven to drink. Only when his muscles are tired and he’s gotten trounced by Niall _again_ does he start to whine.

“Why doesn’t he like me, Niall? What am I doing wrong?”

Niall just cackles, and Harry deeply reconsiders their friendship. Niall detours to the seaside while Harry heads to camp, which is just as well. It gives him time to stew in his own frustrated thoughts. Harry sets his golf clubs in front of the bench closest to his locker in the locker room, the one they share with the village’s athletic facility.

Eventually he rolls the combination and opens his locker before peering down at himself. He’s fairly self-aware, all things considered, knows his peers don’t really _get_ his fashion sense, whether he’s in his khakis-and-lilac-polo golf combo or the floral tops he’s mostly stolen from his family with Gemma’s blessing. He’s a mishmash nightmare, to use one of Gemma’s phrases, of conservative little boy and ridiculous sprawling man-child.

His growth spurt has caused a bit of an upset, making his closet shrink remarkably. Today he’s salvaged a pastel green top from the bottom of his duffel, nearly too small, and tucked his hair into a ridiculous cap, to keep the sun off his eyes. The khakis are his relegated golf attire, which even Niall, his best and truest friend, consistently mocks him for.

He’s probably lucky that camp has a uniform.

So he sighs and pulls his towel and shower stuff out of his locker, glancing around before shucking off his shirt. 

It’s—he’s not _against_ nudity, not at all, but he was knocked around by enough arsey bunkmates back when he was a camper to know to be careful. So he’s careful. Even around fellow counsellors.

He first undoes the belt on his khaki trousers, toeing out of his golf spikes gently. He cracks his neck, tipping his head side to side, before shoving half his stuff into his open locker. He yanks off his polo before tying his towel around his waist and stepping out of his boxers, trying not to trip on air or anything else.

And he’s fine like this, being careful and cautious and covered up—straight as houses _until_ until he hears a startled, half-shouted _“Are those tattoos, Styles?”_

Harry nearly drops his towel, which holds the last vestiges of his _dignity,_ when he realizes who whisper-snapped at him: Louis.

Naturally.

As far as things go, Harry is generally self-assured. He’s found his niche and he thinks he’ll be fine ‘til uni if he keeps his head down. He only gets, like, one slur thrown at him per week at school lately, so all in all, college isn’t totally shit.

But Louis Tomlinson is, as always, regulation _hot_ and Harry is regulation gay and DTF.

“Um.” Great start. Harry drops his head to look at his own littered torso, which—yes, is covered in tattoos. “Why?”

Louis stalks around Harry’s bank of lockers, right up into Harry’s personal space. “Sick! Styles, you secret badass!” He holds up an open palm, almost as though to cup Harry’s pec. “Bro!” he adds, face flushing a bit as his arm falls in an aborted gesture.

“Thanks?”

“Is that a question?”

“No? No, nope. Statement of gratitude.”

“Right,” Louis drawls, amused tilt to his smile. He twirls the dial to a locker two down from Harry’s before pulling a face. “This isn’t mine.”

“No?”

“No. Momentarily blinded by the sweat on your glistening muscles. What were you doing, anyway? ‘S’late.”

Harry flushes. “Golfing,” he says, slowly.

“Golfing?” Louis’ voice goes squeaky.

“Yes.”

“I take it back!”

“Which?”

“You’re not a badass. You’re an old man.” He shrugs, like it’s all decided. Because Louis is like that, all-or-nothing, no room for grey.

“Am not.”

“With the morbid tone and the cap, actually, I think you are.” Louis leans in close and flicks at the hat Harry forgot he was wearing.

Harry removes it and shoves it into his locker swiftly. “Why are you still here then? Footie?”

“Yeah, yeah, got browbeaten into running suicides, for mouthing off.” Louis shrugs. “Liam’s a stickler when it comes to me not making him look foolish in front of the campers.”

“Surprise.”

Louis barks out a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“It’s just—you’re mouthy, is all?”

Louis’ gaze drops to Harry’s lips. “Not one to talk, mate. Hate to break it to you.”

“Are—” Harry stops. “What?”

Louis tips side ways so his shoulder hits the locker to his left. He crosses his arms, considering Harry, who abruptly realizes he’s only wearing a towel. “What what?”

Something hits Harry like a goddamn truck. He gapes. “Are you _flirting_ with me?”

“Woulda thought that was obvious.”

“Um.” _No, not particularly,_ Harry wants to say.

“Got anything else fun in any hidden places?”

“Like _what?”_ What else could there be? Honestly, he’s only wearing a towel.

“Seriously?” Louis snorts, reaching for the bottom hem of his own sweaty top, yanking it over his head.

Harry flushes, looking at the golden-honey of Louis’ bare chest, free of tattoos as far as Harry can see—and oh, fuck’s sake, does he _search._ “Oh. Okay.”

“Seriously.” Louis yanks off his cleats, practically throwing them at Harry, and steps out of his slouchy shorts. Then he unceremoniously grabs Harry’s hand and drags him to the showers.

Harry nearly chokes out a protest, nearly drops his towel, nearly ekes out _you’re going to make me trip and break my ankle and then you’re going to break my heart_ but the fiery look Louis gives him is just too much, so he stays silent.

Louis turns on the shower spray and rips away Harry’s modesty and dignity (read: towel) and shucks off his own—Christ, his jock strap. He’s got on a jock strap, but not for long. Harry’s fit to lose his mind.

Until Louis shoves him against the tile and kisses him. Until everything goes blissfully quiet.

It’s—Louis’ shorter than Harry, a bit, just barely, since Harry’s gone lanky. His hands grapple at Harry’s hips, fingers pressing in hard-hard-hard. Harry mewls a bit until Louis pulls away, peppering Harry’s jaw with kitten kisses. “So bloody fit.”

 _“Me?”_ Harry squawks, grabbing Louis by the shoulders and holding him firm. “What of you, then?”

“I get by,” Louis says in a small voice.

Harry’s heart is beating so bloody hard he feels a bit faint. “Where—is all this coming from?” he manages to stutter out, running one thumb over Louis’ jaw. Louis shakes his head and surges forward to kiss Harry again, to bite his bottom lip and moan a little.

“You drive me fucking crazy, Styles, you piss me off so much,” he murmurs against Harry’s neck, licking a solid stripe into his skin.

“S-sorry, I don’t—”

“Shut the fuck up, please,” Louis groans.

Harry, finally growing bold, flicks Louis in the nose with his middle finger. “Make me.”

Louis goes cold and hot at once, his eyes shuttering as his cheeks flame. He shoulders into Harry’s personal space again. “How can you—how are you—Christ, Styles, it’s not fair!” He turns the shower nozzle higher so that the water comes on, spitting down on them, burning Harry’s skin a little. He hisses, covers Louis’ hand on the nozzle and turns the water colder.

“What’s not fair?” Harry asks, trying to lock the pieces together in his mind, trying to figure out just what is going on.

“You, your fucking existence, your—whole bloody self!” Louis licks water droplets off of Harry’s lips, their slick skin rubbing against one another. His gaze tracks down Harry’s torso, eyes raking him over and making him flush. Water collects in his fringe and his lashes, crystalizing like gemstones.

“You’ve got the prettiest eyelashes,” Harry mumbles, running both thumbs over Louis’ cheekbones. “Always thought so. Right from the beginning, when I walked in and just—you were in this beam of light, literally, and I couldn’t breathe. You looked unreal, like-like a—” His words fail him. Words almost _never_ fail him.

“Like what?”

“Like a god,” he tacks on shyly, curling his hands around Louis’ hips.

“God, your mouth is fucking criminal. How do you get away with being this way?”

Harry snorts. “Pretty sure you don’t let me get away with anything, Lou.”

Louis snakes a hand up and grabs hard at Harry’s hair. “Someone’s gotta keep you in your place, I reckon.”

Harry hisses as Louis yanks on his wet hair, his head tipping back, eyes falling shut. “What, and you think it needs to be you?”

“Want it to be.”

Harry shakes Louis’ hand off. “Then how about you try just being nice to me.”

“Thought I was being nice to you.”

Harry shakes his head again, smiling innocently. “You haven’t even touched my cock yet.”

 _“Criminal mouth,_ Styles, honestly,” Louis growls, moving one hand to the head of Harry’s semi. “You’re fucking filthy.”

“Showers are good for more than just fumbling handjobs,” Harry splutters, water spilling into his mouth.

“Handjobs? Come on. Give me more credit than that.” Louis shoots him a crazed look and sinks immediately to his knees, and Harry can’t help the whine that leaves his mouth. He’s past embarrassment right now, though, because Louis is literally on the ground for him, is about to suck him off in a shower cubicle and looked at him like he was sunshine personified, hot as fire.

Louis, fucking Louis, plants a light kiss to the head of Harry’s cock before he opens his mouth wider than Harry thought possible. He teases a bit at first, swirling his tongue around Harry’s slit before unceremoniously taking him down hard, so that Harry’s length hits the back of his throat. They both groan at that sensation, Harry’s hips snapping before he can stop himself.

“Sorry, sorry,” he cries, trying to still his bucking _forward-forward-forward_ into Louis’ beautiful mouth. “God, you’re so lovely. Always thought so, wish you could see what you look like right now, Lou.”

Louis backs off for a moment, licking his lips. “You really need to hush, Styles. Think maybe you should be the one gagging on my cock, rather than talking so much?” But then he smiles and his eyelashes catch more water droplets and he pats Harry’s thigh gently.

“Sorry.”

Louis opens his lips up again and takes down all of Harry’s length, noses against the skin below Harry’s bellybutton. Curse words run through Harry’s mind but he doesn’t say them, clamps his jaw shut and levers himself up only just barely—by throwing one arm above the showerhead and holding on tight.

He’s got a filthy mind and a filthy vocabulary on a good day, but with Louis’ pretty pink lips tight around his dick, he wants to spew a litany of filth into the tepid waterspray.

He stays quiet, tries not to fuck too hard into Louis’ willing mouth until he realises that Louis is fisting his own cock clumsily from where he’s kneeling, eyes streaming with water and maybe tears. Harry’s hips stutter forward harder as he watches Louis dick into his own hand, and his cock is so big compared to his small fist that Harry wants to shout.

He stares down at Louis and mutters, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, ‘m close, Lou, hey,” nearly crying when Louis pulls him closer, clutching one hand against Harry’s arse cheek. He’s literally choking himself on Harry’s cock and that _idea_ is enough to make Harry come, hard, down Louis’ tight throat, moaning much louder than the shower noise can cover. Almost immediately, Louis is coming too, spilling over his other hand and the shower tiles.

Harry, chest panting hard, tries to help Louis to his feet, but they’re both unsteady, they both fall against the wet tiled wall, wrapped up in one another’s arms.

 

But then—but it seems like nothing changes, except that maybe Louis teases him _more._ It’s confusing, and it’s maddening, and Harry spends the week after their hookup perpetually fucking _hard._

But then—then the next batch of campers leave, and Harry’s about to take a swim and congratulate himself on a job well done when Louis half-tackles him to the sand. He straddles Harry’s clumsy hips, pins his arms down above his head and attacks Harry’s face with sloppy kisses and sharp teeth. It’s overwhelming and kind of adorable—but as quick as Louis is on him, he retreats, laughing loudly at Harry’s confused whimper.

 

Forgetting his commitment to swimming, Harry collapses onto Niall’s bunk, interrupting his conversation about the best kind of amplifiers depending on guitar type.

“Haz?” Niall says, one brow raised so high his forehead wrinkles.

“Why is he doing this to me?”

“I’m just gonna—” Liam begins, getting to his feet and trying to make a hasty retreat.

“No way you’re leaving me with this,” Niall pleads, flicking Harry’s forehead.

“You know him as well as I do, Li, you may as well stay for this conversation too.”

Liam clears his throat. “Fine. Who are we talking about?”

“Louis.”

Liam sighs. “What’s he done now, then?”

“Oh god. Have you had this chat before? Am I a total chump right now? Is that what’s happening right now?”

“I’m—not sure what’s happening right now, actually,” Liam says slowly, moving to join Harry and Niall on the bunk.

“To make short of it: Harry’s got it bad, and Louis’ being a confusing arse.” Niall sighs, patting Harry’s head.

“Oh. Is that all.”

“Is that _all?”_ Harry screeches falling off the mattress.

“Just talk to him,” Liam advises. “He’s a bit of an idiot, truth be told.”

“Why does he hate me, though?”

And for some reason, this makes both Liam and Niall laugh so hard that they, too, join Harry on the floor.

 

And nothing gets easier, not as summer grows hotter and Louis just gets _tanner._ He’s driving Harry mad, and he may be doing it on purpose.

He swats at Harry’s dick in the lunch line, throws strawpaper at his head, chucks articles of clothing at him and demands that he _cover up his entire damn self._ Harry’s not sure if it’s foreplay or out-and-out loathing, so he mostly just fish-mouths until Louis leaves him alone.

But Louis never fucking _leaves him alone._ He’s everywhere Harry is, not just the cabin they both run but also at the pool, on the basketball courts, in the crafts building. He hangs off of Harry and slaps his face in equal measure, cackles at his pain but helps him put a plaster on his knee when he trips over a tree root.

It’s maddening.

So Harry pouts at him, gives him looks that _surely_ read as confused, because Harry’s not a very good actor. He’s just not. “Be nice to me,” he pleads, sticking out his bottom lip.

Louis yanks on his fringe. “Love, this is me being nice.” He shoves Harry off the dock fully-clothed, and they’re probably both lucky that Harry doesn’t drown.

The only gratifying part is the open-mouthed look Louis gives Harry when he strips off his soaking shirt, eyes raking him up and down. Harry chuckles to himself and tosses Louis the shirt, only to run away when Louis tries to whip him with it.

 

“He hates me,” Harry whinges into his mobile, long past when he should have stopped complaining to Gemma.

“He doesn’t, but okay.”

“You don’t know that!”

“You’re oblivious, is what I know.”

“I am not.”

“Don’t make me pull out the list.”

“What list?” Harry knows what list she’s talking about.

“Aiden, Nick, Greg, Jeff?”

“Stop it.”

_“Mr. Corden?”_

“My drama teacher does not have a crush on me!” Harry screeches into the open air of his thankfully-empty cabin.

“Sure he doesn’t. Okay, so listen, I love you a lot but I can’t listen to you bitch about another boy who’s pulling your pigtails on the playground.”

“I hate you.”

“I hate you too.”

 

The next day, their cabin goes for a hike and Louis cheerfully commands the campers to pick berries, knowing full-well they’re nowhere near any kind of berry patch, and he pulls Harry behind a huge tree so they can snog like idiots.

Louis is the first to pull away, lips bright pink and eyes glazed. He knees Harry in the groin before darting away, laughter loud and raucous. Harry sighs and adjusts himself in his shorts, thankful that the knee didn’t actually hit his nuts.

 

Family Day looms and Harry dreads it a bit, knows that Gemma will show up full-force and demand to be introduced to Louis, will doubtless have told their mother all about him. It consumes his focus for two days until Louis yanks him into the utility shed, the one that holds blow-up water rafts and a knotted volleyball net, shoving his hand into Harry’s shorts and jacking him off until Harry sees bright-white stars. He barely gives Harry a moment to reciprocate before he’s darting away, leaving Harry to clean himself up.

 

Of course it comes to a head during Family Week, just like Harry worried it would, when most of Louis’ brood has shown up and Harry’s biting at his bottom lip so hard he thinks he might bleed. Louis’ family is overwhelming the same way Louis himself is, and Harry is trotted along the line for introductions, teased by Louis’ sisters even as he bounces Ernest on one hip.

“I see what you meant, Lou,” Charlotte mutters, making eye contact with Harry and patting his cheek. “He’s a cute one.”

 _“Lottie. Shut it,”_ Louis bites out, face pinking up.

“Come on, Boobear,” his mother, Jay, says next. “Show us the beach, then, since you like it so much.”

“Boobear?” Harry’s grin is wide and fast.

Louis sighs. “I hate everyone.”

Gemma intercepts them near the mess hall, looping one arm easily around Harry’s shoulders. “Proper broody, are we? Found yourself a baby?” She leans across him to tweak Ernest’s cheek gently. “Hi cutie.”

Ernest frowns. “Who’re you?”

“Harry’s sister Gemma!” She claps her hands and leans down as though to whisper a secret. “I’m Harry’s favourite person in the world.”

“Nuh-uh, that’s Louis.” Ernest shakes his head once and sticks a thumb into his mouth.

Gemma chuckles. “Yeah, all right. I can see that. Where we headed, then, this little squad of ours?”

“Beach,” Harry answers, voice short. He’s embarrassed now more often than not, but there’s nothing he can do for it. He just, like, nods his head and submits.

Harry kind of wishes that it all bothered him more.

But then Louis turns, looks over his shoulder at Harry and gives him a bright smile, and all Harry can do is hitch Ernest up higher on his hip. Because Harry is done for.

 

At the beach, Louis pelts them all with sea glass, excepting Ernest and Doris, and he gets into a tickling match with Daisy and really, Harry’s fine. He’s fine with sitting cross-legged on the sand while Ernest pulls at his hair, endearing himself to Louis’ whole family.

It’s all a ruin, really.

Because he’s figured something out, watching Louis now and in his quiet moments (rare, his quiet moments are rare), he’s figured out that Louis’ actually rather—shy. Or, if not shy, at least insecure. He worries at Harry with bravado, with big movements meant to distract him from the tiny pockets of insecurity, from the times that Louis just can’t get a laugh out of anyone despite his best attempts.

In Harry’s eyes, Louis is big, and bright, and so, so lovely, but to himself he—he doesn’t know.

That’s what Harry’s realized.

Harry could pat himself on the back for his brilliance, except for the fact that he has no clue what to do about it all.

 

As always, it seems that Louis’ going to be the one to start to sort things out, in the end. Harry lets Louis corner him after everyone’s families have gone home, lets Louis crowd him into his tiny bunk (bottom bunk, Louis snorts), lets Louis take him apart so, so slowly.

And Harry flips them quickly, gets Louis on his back so he can return the favour, so he can watch Louis quiver underneath him. Louis tries to squirm away, tries valiantly, until Harry whispers, “Please. Please, Lou, let me make you feel good too?”

Louis goes slack, throws an arm up to cover his eyes, voice keening at the back of his throat. Harry palms easily at Louis’ thighs and licks at Louis’ uncut cock, pursing his lips against the head until Louis gasps.

Then Harry smiles and opens up, taking Louis in more, coating his tongue in saliva until things are messy and clumsy. He watches Louis, a bit, casting his eyes up as best he can, looks at his writhing, tan chest. He’s beautiful.

Harry waits for Louis to lose himself, lets Louis fuck into his mouth hard while he himself ruts against the mattress a little, blood pooling back into his spent dick. He sputters around Louis’ length and tries to open his throat, pressing down at Louis’ hips so his arse is flush against the bed.

Louis comes silently, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. Harry swallows it all and backs off, panting loudly as Louis cards fingers through his hair.

“Fucking hell, Styles, you’re going to be the death of me.”

 

They sleep the night entwined together, despite formal rules and sanctions. Harry wakes up to find his face pressed to Louis’ chest, his body curled against Louis like he’s, well, taller than Harry is, even though he’s not.

They trek to the showers hand-in-hand, into the locker room that the camp shares with the local athletic facility. Their shouts and laughs echo around, given that it’s a Sunday afternoon and they’re almost entirely alone.

Harry loves it.

 

They’re coming up on the second-to-last set of campers, Harry realizes early the next Monday morning when the newest ones arrive. His chest twinges and his gaze swivels to Louis. He tries to grin through it, but his heart just—it hurts. And he’s clearly a bad actor, he knows he is, so he can’t hide much when Louis asks him what’s wrong.

But he doesn’t know what to say, because the things he’s feeling might not be the things Louis is feeling, and of course they haven’t talked, they’ve just—acted, and fucked, and rutted against one another in the showers.

So Harry knows that Louis is insecure, sure, but he doesn’t know what else Louis feels for him, doesn’t know the intensity of Louis’—anything.

“I dunno. I’m okay, I guess.”

Louis raises a brow and doesn’t say anything.

“I’m just—it’s that I’m—I’ll—we’re nearly.” He falls silent, gaping a bit at Louis. His hands fall to his sides.

And this time, Louis manages to put his words in order in a way he hasn’t before: “I know, love. I’ll miss everyone too.”

 

It’s something, but it’s not enough.

 

So that night, he waits until their cabin is asleep, watches carefully for the gentle slackening of everyone’s faces and quiet breathing. Then he clambers to Louis’ bunk and pets his hair, tries to wake him up slowly. “Lou. Hey, Lou, c’mere. Can I talk to you?”

Louis scrunches his face up, rubs his nose with one hand. “Styles? What’s—yeah, what’s? Sleepy.”

“Just for a minute, babe.”

Louis hums momentarily, swinging his legs out of the top bunk and loping down easily. He follows Harry out of the cabin, rubbing at his nose again. “What’s it?”

Harry places one palm against Louis’ sleep-warmed cheek. “What are we?”

“Um, like, teenagers.”

“Louis.”

Louis breathes out a deep sigh. “Sleepy.”

“Lou? Please?”

He sighs again, slumping against the cabin’s exterior, his eyes screwed shut. “I dunno, you just—you make me nervous, and confused, and you’re ineffable, and it bugs me, but like, I also love it? You bug the fuck out of me, and I just—I can’t help myself. Around you.” He cracks open one eye. “Okay, yeah? Is that enough?”

“What are we?”

Louis licks his lips. “I don’t know, love. What are we?” His eyes are drooped and tired, he’s got bruise-like crescents under his eyes, and Harry has never, ever thought of someone as so beautiful.

“I just, um. Will. Will you be my boyfriend, Lou?”

“Yeah, Haz. Also? I love you, you idiot.” He yanks Harry forward by the neck of his sleep-shirt, kissing him like they’ll never, ever die.

And for now, that’s all they need.


End file.
